***Another busy day tomorrow***
The apartment was almost empty now. Boxes gone. Furniture stripped down to its ghost outlines on the floor. Ethan stood in the doorway of his room, suitcase by his side, watching sunlight cut through the dust in slow, golden slants. His parents were finishing the last of the packing downstairs—voices echoing faintly, the sound of tape peeling, cardboard creaking.
When they called up to him—"We're heading out to meet the movers!"—he answered with a casual wave and a smile that reached nowhere near his eyes. He watched them drive off through the front window, the car vanishing into the traffic.
The house fell silent.
He turned, shut the door behind him, and the silence changed—became sharper, deliberate. The performance was over.
Ethan crossed to the desk, opened his laptop, and the hum of fans filled the room. His secure mail client pinged. A new message, flagged for his Isaac Maddox persona:
Robert Hughes: "Mr. Maddox, please call me when available. Minor issues with I.M.A.G.I.N.E.'s registration. IRS tax-exempt status legal verification pending."
Ethan read it once, smirked faintly, then deleted the message without replying.
Robert would panic for a day, but he'd live. The "legal issue" was expected — a verification check on the newly registered nonprofit. It wasn't a problem; it was an opportunity. The operation needed a legal face—someone sharp, ambitious, and malleable enough to serve both Isaac Maddox and Ethan Kane without realizing whom she was serving.
He opened a drawer, pulled out the phonebook, and flipped through the pages with slow precision until he found the entry he wanted.
Goodman, Lieber, Kurtzberg & Holliway.
The law firm for superhumans. The same office where Jennifer Walters—She-Hulk—handled metahuman cases with televised flair and blinding righteousness. He wasn't interested in her. He needed someone more… cut throat.
He found the name: Mallory Book.
Polished. Controlled. Hungry.
He smiled thinly. "Perfect."
He activated the voice modulator, adjusting the filter until his reflection in the black laptop screen spoke back with the crisp, confident timbre of Isaac Maddox. Polite. Charismatic.
He dialed.
"Goodman, Lieber, Kurtzberg & Holliway, this is Claire speaking. How may I direct your call?"
Ethan's tone was warm, effortless. "Good morning, Mrs. Claire. I'd like to speak with a Mrs. Mallory Book, please. Tell her Isaac Maddox is calling."
"Do you have an appointment, Mr. Maddox?"
"Not yet," he said. "But after she hears why I'm calling, I'm sure she'll make one."
The receptionist hesitated—there was something in his voice that made refusal feel unwise. "One moment, please."
The hold music was classical, precise, and faintly smug. A minute later, a new voice cut through it—clear, professional, and cool as marble.
"This is Mallory Book."
"Mrs. Book," Ethan said smoothly, the cadence of Isaac Maddox slipping into place like a silk glove. "Thank you for taking my call. I hope I'm not interrupting brilliance in progress."
A pause, the soft scratch of a pen being set down. "Flattery from a stranger before ten a.m.," she said. "That's either dangerous or desperate. Which are you, Mr. Maddox?"
"Neither," Ethan replied lightly. "Just expensive. But profitable, if you're willing to listen."
There was a small click, the sound of her office door closing. When she spoke again, her tone carried that faint edge of curiosity masked behind detachment. "I'm listening."
Ethan smiled. He could almost see her—immaculate suit, perfect posture, the faint arch of one brow signaling both skepticism and control.
"Mrs. Book," he began, "I'm not calling to hire you as a simple attorney. I'm calling to offer you something Goodman Lieber Kurtzberg & Holliway never will."
A slow, dismissive laugh escaped her. "Mr. Maddox, I've heard every variety of sales pitch from men with delusions of grandeur. You might want to try a new opening line."
Ethan didn't flinch. "You're right," he said softly. "So, let's skip the pitch. I'm not selling you anything—I'm giving you something you've earned."
"Is that so?" she replied dryly, voice thick with disbelief.
"I want you to build your own firm," Ethan said. "Your name on the door. Your cases. Your rules. Your own empire."
Mallory's chuckle was low, poised, and cruel. "That's quite the fantasy, Mr. Maddox. Most men who call me want to avoid prison or taxes. You're the first to offer me a fairy tale."
"Fairy tales promise happy endings," Ethan said. "I don't deal in fantasy. What I'm promising is results."
The silence that followed was telling. He could feel her bristling, unimpressed but intrigued despite herself.
He continued before she could interrupt. "I'll fund it completely. Startup capital. Midtown office space. Staff, investigators, analysts—whatever you require. You'll have full operational autonomy. You'll choose your clients and cases without interference from me. And cherry on top, you'll own fifty-one percent."
Her tone sharpened instantly, disdain veiled as precision. "Majority control in a firm that doesn't exist? How generous. Tell me, Mr. Maddox, do you always hand out imaginary empires to strangers?"
Ethan leaned back in his chair, unbothered. "Only to people who can rule them. Beauty is optional; capability isn't. Luckily, you're both."
That drew a pause. When she spoke again, her voice was more measured. "And the catch?"
"No catch," Ethan said. "Just exclusivity. You handle my holdings when I call. My acquisitions, my expansions. You keep my affairs sealed, discreet, and untouchable. You'll never hear from my associates—only me or a man named Robert. If there are any changes to this, I'll inform you directly. With this, you'll ensure the world stays out of my business."
Mallory laughed softly, but it was all blade and no warmth. "So, you want a fixer."
"No, I want a partner," he said.
Her tone cooled further. "Mr. Maddox, you must be very used to people saying yes to you. Let me be clear: I don't take orders. I don't play the sidekick in someone else's delusion of grandeur."
"Neither do I," Ethan said calmly. "That's why I called you. I have no need for a sidekick."
Another pause. He could almost hear her adjusting in her chair, the faint creak of leather. She was still in control—or trying to be.
"This sounds like the kind of offer people regret too late," she said finally. "You sound like a visionary… or a very polite criminal."
Ethan chuckled, a smooth baritone that radiated confidence. "Mrs. Book, in my experience, the difference depends entirely on who's writing the law."
That earned the faintest exhale of a laugh. "Touché. So tell me—why me? You could have any firm in New York under retainer."
"Because most firms are built on compromise," he said. "And you, Mrs. Book, are not."
She said nothing, but he pressed on.
"You want victory without apology. Power without dilution. At GLK&H, there's already a star who hogs the spotlight. Green skin, charming smile, endless press. You've been building a throne you can't sit on. I'm offering you more than a throne. I'm offering your own kingdom."
Silence. This time, not out of dismissal—but thought.
When she spoke again, her voice was lower. "I don't like being underestimated."
"I don't like brilliance being wasted."
That hit its mark. The temperature of the conversation shifted. Her tone softened, but only slightly. "You're dangerous, Mr. Maddox."
"Only when necessary."
She paused, testing his tone. "Let's say I entertain this madness. What happens next?"
"You resign quietly," Ethan said. "Tell your partners you're taking a sabbatical for independent consultation. My office will send a letter of intent by Monday. Two weeks from now, your firm will exist—operational, funded, and under your name."
"You make it sound effortless," she murmured.
"It will be," he said simply. "I've already mapped the infrastructure. You only need to sign your name."
"And if I refuse?"
Ethan's voice stayed perfectly level. "Then I'll find someone else and make them the best attorney in New York. But I'd rather it be you, as you fit my personality so well."
A soft breath—amusement mixed with irritation.
"You're a manipulator," she said finally. "A flattering one, but still a manipulator."
"I prefer the term realist. Besides, isn't it only a manipulation if you don't know it's happening?"
"I suppose that's true."
"Then we'll get along beautifully."
Mallory's next words came slower, deliberate. "Send your proposal. If it's as clean as your pitch, I'll consider it."
"It will be immaculate."
"Good," she said. "Because I don't work for anyone who thinks they own me."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Ethan replied. His voice dropped into something rich, magnetic. "Ownership is such an ugly word, Mrs. Book. Partnership—that's the one that shines."
She said nothing. The silence wasn't rejection—it was calculation. Then, softly, before hanging up:
"You're either insane or brilliant, Mr. Maddox. I haven't decided which yet."
There was a faint chuckle, and then the line went dead.
Ethan smiled faintly. "You'll decide soon enough."
Ethan sat for a while after the call ended, letting the silence fold over him like a curtain. The Isaac Maddox voice still hummed faintly in his ears—an echo of authority, smooth and certain.
He opened a secure line and called Robert Hughes. The man answered on the second ring, his voice anxious and overeager.
"Mr. Maddox! I was beginning to worry you hadn't—"
Ethan cut him off gently. "Relax, Robert. I'm aware of the issue with the registration. I'll handle it soon. Until then, I want you to focus on scouting potential properties for I.M.A.G.I.N.E. I also need a shortlist—three minimum—of high-rises for sale or rent. If you can't find that many, locate a property that can be converted into a law firm."
"Yes, of course, Mr. Maddox. I'll—"
"I trust you will," Ethan interrupted again, polite but final. "Send the report to my email before midnight. Thank you, Robert."
"Yes, sir. I will."
Ethan hung up without another word.
He exhaled through his nose, set the phone aside, and rubbed at his temple. The rhythm of his plans was already ticking again.
A knock sounded at the door.
He blinked, mildly surprised. His parent should be gone all day, and no one should be visiting him today.
When he opened it, Felicia Hardy stood there, arms crossed, wearing that look that hovered somewhere between annoyance and amusement.
Ethan smiled slowly, the expression curving like a blade. "Well," he said, "this is an unwelcome surprise."
Felicia scoffed. "Should I then say this is an unsurprising welcome?"
He chuckled, stepping aside. "You should play along more. Come in before someone thinks you're here to rob me."
She rolled her eyes but walked past him anyway, her perfume lingering like static.
Ethan closed the door behind her, the faintest flicker of curiosity passing across his face before vanishing behind his usual calm.
And with one call ended, another began—the rhythm of control never stopped. Across the city, at Goodman, Lieber, Kurtzberg & Holliway, Mallory Book was already moving.
She sat at her desk, one leg crossed over the other, eyes fixed on the frosted glass wall of her office. The morning light made her look carved from steel.
"Claire," she called.
Her secretary appeared almost instantly, notepad in hand. "Yes, Mrs. Book?"
Mallory didn't look up from her desk. "I want everything you can find on a man named Isaac Maddox. Pull corporate filings, shell company ties, property records—anything. If he so much as sneezed near a boardroom, I want it on my desk within two hours."
Claire blinked, startled. "Two hours? That's—"
Mallory's eyes flicked up, and the protest withered.
"Yes, Mrs. Book. Two hours."
"Good." Mallory leaned back, her reflection stared back—composed, calculating. The first smile she'd allowed all morning was the one she didn't let reach her eyes. "Let's see who thinks they can buy me."